A CLASSY JOINT

Dear Spike:

"No," the woman behind the restaurant bar brusquely responded. "We don't have high chairs or booster seats at this restaurant."

The underlying message was clear: This was a classy joint. Too classy for kids. And the last thing they wanted to do was encourage parents to bring their little tykes by having someplace for said tykes to sit.

Fair 'nuff. I've seen my fair share of really amazingly awful children left to run amuck at nice restaurants — pulling tablecloths, throwing silverware, spilling wines. One time, I was on a date with your mother at a rather fancy bistro in the city when I looked down to see a ruddy little redheaded boy, with what looked to be raspberry jelly stuck to his face, sitting by my leg. His mother, sitting two tables away, waved apologetically, but didn't bother to get up out of her chair to come get her son.

So sure, I can understand why this place doesn't have a kid's menu.

But while this venerable downtown haunt is a perfectly respectable place to drop $100 for dinner and wine on a Friday evening, with selections such as "Lavender Seared Halibut with Watercress-Leek Cream, with crimson lentils and caramelized escarole," its lunch menu is far less intrepid.

I mean, really, I ordered a bacon cheeseburger, alright? And that wasn't even the most low-brow item on the menu.

In any case, you and I were there to meet friends. And we weren't going to jet just because they didn't have crayons for you to draw on the table with. That's not withstanding the fact that I really like showing off how well behaved you are.

When you were just five months old, we took you to see a Charlie Chaplain flick at the downtown Capitol Theater. When we walked in everyone cringed. But you didn't so much as make a squeak the whole time we were there.

We get compliments all the time about how quiet and self-entertaining you are. I'd like to take credit — and of course, I do — but really, this is one of those nature over nurture things, I'm sure. You're just that way.

So today you sat quietly on my lap, eating fruit from my plate and staring at yourself in the mirror above our table. You squirmed, a bit, but didn't make a sound. A few old ladies waved at you. And I overheard the couple in the booth next to ours, who had been making faces at you, discussing whether it was time to start their own family. The poor suckers.

I guess what I'm trying to say is thanks, kid, for making it so easy to look like a good dad.

I don't expect anything less from you as you grow older. But I'll love you just the same — even if the only restaurants we can go to are drive-thru.

Love,
dad